


Sugar and Cyanide

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bloodplay, Challenge 11, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Did I Mention, Horror, Jim is high on blood, M/M, Porn, Prompt Fic, Smut, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, Vampire Moriarty, but if you're reading mormor you must be expecting some issues, letswritesherlock, mormor, so it's kind of like he's drugged while having sex, this porn took a surprisingly angsty turn, which poses some issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fit of blood-induced euphoria, Jim had laid siege to the space. He’d regret it, when the high had faded and he’d washed his skin clean of the sins of this evening. And Seb would be the one to pay. Still, the ex-soldier considered nothing so beautiful as a bit of unbridled chaos, and the image of Jim splayed against that sea of decimation was one gorgeous sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Cyanide

Seb knew the minute he opened the door.

Ivory carpet stained crimson. Gold damask wallpaper bearing fresh splatter-marks. Antique velvet chaise dotted and smeared with reddish-brown fingerprints. It all pointed to one thing.

There was another fucking body in the sitting room.

Which was … fine. Whatever. He was used to it. 

No, Seb didn’t mind the body itself—a young boy crumpled at the foot of the couch, early twenties, dressed for a night out at the clubs, hadn’t yet begun to stink. Disposal would be easy enough; just drop him down the chute to their private skip downstairs and dump the whole lot when he had time. As for the mess? All of Jim’s precious things? Well, that was why they had the cleaning service on speed dial, wasn’t it? Two plump babushkas would show up sometime early in the daylight hours—for obvious reasons, they always came while Jim slept—trundling in with their industrial shampooers and their pursed lips, ready to buff away the evidence. 

As often as Jim’s violent exuberance got the better of him, Seb could never understand why he’d chosen to outfit his home in shades of dove and clotted cream. Maybe he liked the sharp contrast of red against ivory. Maybe he enjoyed making people sweat, knowing how difficult it would be to undo his careless wreckage. Sounded about right. In all the years Seb had known Jim, the cleaning ladies had failed leave the place sparkling just the once. Powerful motivator, fear. Make an example of one man and the next made it his business not to fail. Seb thought it a tad excessive to employ the follow-up crew in clearing away the dismembered parts of the previous one, but Jim was Jim. C’est la vie.

So yeah, the body was the least of his worries. It was what the body signified that concerned Seb.

It wasn’t often Jim drained a person in one sitting, and when he did, there were always consequences. Sure, he usually kept someone around to snack on—a pint here and there—until he got busy or distracted and forgot about them, leaving the poor tosser to expire naked and chained in the spare bedroom. Then it’d be Seb’s job to go find a new donor. Sometimes Jim managed to hold onto them until the end, sucking their malnourished, anemic bodies dry like a kid slurping the last of his cherry slush puppy. But a whole person in one evening? The last time Jim had done that, he’d streaked across Downing Street before pulling Seb into the back of the Prime Minister’s private limo for some quality alone time. Seb still had scars on his hand from where he’d attempted to quiet Jim’s enthusiastic shouts. 

All this flicked through Seb’s mind as he took a first step into the penthouse. He knew what he was in for: the crazy Irish fuck was sure to be a manic mess—or even more of a manic mess than usual—and Seb was the unlucky bastard to see him through. He regarded the frozen-eyed boy as he pulled the front door closed and set his kit down. Wouldn’t be needing his rifle again tonight. Well, hopefully. Guess you never knew with Jim.

“Is that _finally_ my Sebby?” Jim called from the direction of the bedroom, voice muffled. It wasn’t a question; of course Jim knew who it was. If he couldn’t pick out the particular rhythm of Seb’s heartbeat, Jim could surely smell him—yes, even across the distance and through a closed door. So not a question, nor even an invitation, really.

A summons.

He stepped over the puddles in the carpet, shucking his coat and struggling to find a surface clear of blood spatter where he might set it. The heavy bronze statue of Ares at the far end of the marble console seemed to have evaded the carnage, so he draped it over the war god’s pointed spear and toed off his boots.

“I’ve been waiting for _so long_ , pet. I thought you were never coming back.” 

Seb smiled. With his lilting cadence and measured delivery, it always seemed to take Jim twice as long as it should to spit out a thought. Seb didn’t mind—made him feel like he was being serenaded. He headed toward the rear of the penthouse and schooled his expression. Wouldn’t do to let Jim see that kind of raw affection; it would only be used against him.

“Darling,” Jim said a little less warmly. “Get in here before I decide to cut off something you’ll miss.”

 _Serenaded by a sadistic prick_ , Seb thought. These weren’t idle threats, see—Seb’s missing left pinky toe could attest.

“I’m here, Boss,” he said, punching in the key code on the wall next to Jim’s room. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He choked on his words as the steel door swung open. 

“Not wearing any knickers,” Jim murmured.

No… no, Jim was definitely not wearing any knickers. Splayed on the mattress of his carved four-poster, legs spread, prick jutting up against his bellybutton and two fingers tucked deep inside his arsehole, he wasn’t wearing anything but an obscene smirk.

Seb leaned against the doorframe, casual-as-you-like, and took in the disaster of the room. 

“You’ve been busy.” 

He was proud of the cool disinterest of his voice. Even if the flutter of his pulse had already given him away, at least he didn’t sound like he was fucking gagging for it.

“Oh, yes.” Jim twisted his fingers, lateral incisors digging sharply into his bottom lip. “I’ve been having a marvelous time.”

If you knew Jim Moriarty even a little—though Seb fancied he was the only one who really knew the man—you wouldn’t be surprised by his attachment to flouncy decadence and pomp. The way he glided dancer-like through the world, his penchant for saccharine terms of endearment, his soft, lilting voice—everything about the man was boldly theatrical. Camp.

Effeminate quirks or no, Jim’s fundamental authority could never be called into question. This was why that sing-song voice was so chilling, why he could get away with labeling himself “Queen” or calling you “Honey”. It was scarier somehow to know the man might just as easily kiss you as disembowel you—and that he’d do both with a smile. This sugar-and-cyanide duality spilled into every area of Jim’s life. For instance, while he preferred a modern look in clothing, his style in decor was heavily influenced by the Rococo masters of eighteenth century France. All that beautiful scrollwork, those meticulously carved beams, those glossy silks and vibrant satins: kindling for the fires of revolution. It made sense that the man romanticized that particular era. After all, what did Jim Moriarty represent but the limitless wealth and power of the ruling class met with the violence and destructive rage of the mob?

Seb knew Jim loved this room, his room. It was his safehouse, his sanctuary. But to see it now—drapery shredded, delicate ceramics shattered, fabric-lined walls and priceless canvasses hanging limp and torn—you might think he had a vendetta against his own heart. In a fit of blood-induced euphoria, he’d laid siege to the space, unaware that the head he’d introduced to Lady Guillotine was his own. He’d regret it, when the high had faded and he’d washed his skin clean of the sins of this evening. And Seb would be the one to pay. Still, the ex-soldier considered nothing so beautiful as a bit of unbridled chaos, and the image of Jim splayed against that sea of decimation was one gorgeous sight.

“So club boy was something else, huh?”

Jim moaned, pumping in and out of himself with a third finger now. “He was so good, Sebby. I don’t know what he did to produce that flavor, but we should figure out how to bottle it.” He ran his tongue over razor-sharp teeth, his gaze landing on Seb. “Like drinking the fucking sun.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend that, sir.”

Coal-black eyes glistened, and Seb found himself shivering in response. Jim was miles of delicious pale skin, smudged red here-and-there and flushed pink at the cheeks. The rose tint would fade as the blood worked through his system, but for a while, Jim would be a few degrees warmer, flaunting the heat he’d stollen from the dead boy. And Seb couldn’t wait to feel that fire.

Jim slid his hand free from between his cheeks and wrapped it around his cock. He pumped leisurely, eyes locked on Seb. The soldier felt a prickle run down his spine, his mouth watering, but no invitation to join was forthcoming. Fucking tease.  It was becoming more difficult to pretend he was unaffected. Still, he knew not to make a move without Jim’s say-so, and the man looked like he just might leave Seb to watch while he finished himself off.

Jim’s free hand came up to brush across his nipple, and low groan rumbled in his chest. He relented at last.

“Well, go on and make yourself useful. Strip.”

 _Oh, thank fuck_.

Seb made quick work of his vest, trousers, and pants, then wound his way barefoot through the debris. He crawled up the mattress towards the debased creature waiting there.

“Mind if I take over, sir?”

Jim glared. “Stop talking and do it,” he growled. 

Having decided to let Seb touch him, fast apparently wasn’t fast enough. Best to skip the preliminaries, then. Seb grabbed the bottle of lube left open and dripping on Jim’s designer sheets, slicked himself, and without any preamble, pulled Jim’s hips up to rest on the V of his open thighs. Raw desire was writ across his face, he was sure, but as he nudged at the opening Jim had so thoughtfully prepared, Seb couldn’t bother to care. He canted his hips forward, and both men gasped their relief. Hands on Jim’s gorgeous skin, driving in until fully seated, Seb felt himself encompassed in tight, slick heat and nearly lost it.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”

He steadied himself with a deep breath—Jim clenching around him—and enjoyed the razor-edge of pain and pleasure of the moment. The urge to close his eyes was overwhelming, all his instincts telling him to shut out the world and feel, but the sight of Jim spread beneath him was frankly too beautiful and too rare to sacrifice. As he watched Jim’s lean stomach tremble and flex, his hands fist tattered sheets, and his jaw fall open in a silent, agonized cry, it was all worth it. He could stay like this for hours.

Jim unfortunately did not share his leisurely approach. He bucked violently, digging his nails into the back of Seb’s hands and drawing a line of petite crescents in blood. 

“Move. _Now_.” The warning inherent in those words pulled Seb out of his reverie.

He shifted up on his knees, supporting Jim’s weight in his hands, the man pliant and eager. Then he slid back and slammed home with a grunt. Jim snarled as his head rattled the headboard. He pressed his palms against the carved wood to provide leverage while Seb thrust again and again—brutal, relentless. He knew anything less and Jim would call him a pussy, threaten to show him how it was done. And Seb was not having that tonight. As it was, Jim’s spine curved up and away from the bed, and his eyes rolled back.

“Yes, yes,” he cried. “Oh, Sebby—”

“God, you feel … so … good.”

Sweat gathered along his hairline. He fought for breath, light-headed and blissfully wrecked. Jim’s prick bobbed against his stomach, and Seb wondered idly if he might make the man come without touching his cock at all. He liked the idea of a challenge, and so redoubled his efforts. Jim cried out—a beautiful sound—and for a moment the look he aimed at Seb was so raw, so unguardedly affectionate, it seared him.

Seb bit down on his tongue, tasting iron. The words threatening to spill were too soft, too dangerous to be released. So he said nothing and stared at the hollow of Jim’s throat, a lovely pale dip smeared with blood. He thought about the dead boy in the other room, and how close he himself had come to being just another of Jim’s meals. How Jim had tasted Seb that first time, and then fucked him and told him not to expect to live through the night.

But he did live, somehow. He was still here. Still in Jim’s bed. Still at his side. And it was a better life than he’d ever imagined, even if he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Man up, soldier-boy. You look like someone killed your puppy.” 

Seb grit his teeth. Steeled his gaze.

Jim cackled—high and slightly crazed—some unknown scene playing out in his mind. “I _didn’t_ kill your puppy, did I? I remember blood…”

Jim’s eyes went glassy, and Seb was sure he’d dodged a bullet. He ripped romance from his thoughts, and focused on the silky slide, the stolen warmth of Jim’s body. Sweat beaded on his nose, and he watched, fascinated, as it dropped into the valley of Jim’s breastbone. He could feel a fissure of fire rippling up his spine and crackling along his nerve endings. Still, it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He leaned forward, folding Jim in half. Hands braced on the backs of Jim’s wide-spread thighs, he slammed into him over and over. The brutal assault drew a pained gasp from the man, and Seb smile tightly. 

Sometimes, he wanted to hurt Jim. Sometimes, he wanted to kill him. And then he imagined a life without the mad bastard, and something sharp and horrible clenched inside him until he put those thoughts away.

“Seb! You brilliant fuck. You magnificent man. Oh, Jesus, don’t stop!”

He would pay for this later. In the cool light of a new evening, after Jim had cleared his head and slept off his euphoria, Seb would reap the rewards for seeing the man this vulnerable, for making him feel this breathless with need. Once he’d come back to himself, Jim would lash out—spend the next few nights making Seb bleed and scream just to remind him who was in control—and still it would be worth it. To have this now, Jim soft and yielding underneath him, trembling with want, begging for something only Seb could give him. Well that was worth all the fucking pain in the world.

“I’m close, please—” Jim shuddered underneath him, astonishment writ on his face. “You’re an angel. My perfect Sebastian.”

Everything ached. A black hole opened up in his chest and sucked the whole of him into an empty void. 

Seb sobbed as he came.

Jim tumbled after, clenching around him and painting his chest white. It was a glorious plunge, a euphoric dive into oblivion. Seb reveled in every second of the fall, even knowing the landing would never be as soft as he needed.

As the last of the aftershocks passed through them, leaving both gasping and quivering, Seb didn’t meet Jim’s eyes. He rolled to his back, slipping free with a wet pop. Groaning in satisfaction, he laid an arm across his face and feigned exhaustion. It was always the same—the consequence of being a man addicted to adrenaline and adventure and pain. A man, it seemed, built for a man like Jim.

There were a million ways to love Jim Moriarty, but not a single way to say it.

Jim curled against his side, still flushed, still warm. He was not a cuddler—save for those rare occasions when another person’s sanguine humors flowed so thickly through him. Seb wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s back, indulging himself while Jim’s face was hidden.

A quiet peace settled around them as Jim nuzzled in. He snaked his tongue out, lapping at the glistening, salty sheen of Seb’s chest. A low hum rumbled through Jim, and Seb felt a sharp prick as Jim’s extended incisors connected. The soldier laughed as his cock jumped feebly, unable to quell what was now a pavlovian response. Jim smiled against his skin, then licked along the thin red trails. 

“My gorgeous boy. Whatever are we going to do with you?”

Seb grunted, fairly certain a question like that required no response.

“You’re funny,” Jim drawled, sounding even more drunk than usual. “All the places in this great wide world to be, and you’re here.” He looked up, gaze soft, lips stained red. “I think you’re a little bit crazy.”

“Surely am, boss. I surely am.”

Jim smiled, then laid his head back down and went heavy and still. The sweet song of sleep called to Seb, but the sun would be rising soon, and he’d need to secure some new curtains for Jim’s windows before he let himself fall. He thought perhaps Jim was already out and moved to get up when Jim startled him.

“Don’t get any ideas, though,” he murmured, not entirely playfully. “You try to leave me, and I’ll make sure even your mama won't be able to identify you.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”

And he wouldn’t. Seb knew where he belonged: right here, at his dear psychopath’s side.

 

 

...

**Author's Note:**

> For Let's Write Sherlock challenge 11: Create a story in a fantastical alternate universe using the following prompt: “The dead body was the least of their worries.”
> 
> http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/79301605333/challenge-11-create-a-story-in-a-fantastical
> 
> This one started out as a lovely bit of twisted porn, and then got kinda angsty, and then circled around to fluffy in the end.


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